~ Wallace's Attempt at Humanities

Monthly Archives: December 2014

At this stage in life a funny thing happens in addressing a new Christmas season.

It’s pace is reminiscent of an old Groucho Marx song from the 1936 film hoot, Animal Crackers: Hello, I must be going, I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going. I’m glad I came, but just the same, I must be going. Only Groucho, right?

This 2014 holiday is so different – it tracks back to fresh Christmases around 1943. That year’s music season was complicated for small fry – with Spike Jones’ hit, Der Fuehrer’s Face. “Face” creatively parodied the Nazi anthem, accompanied with superb Bronx cheers; the other choice was, of course, America’s popular crooner, “Der Bingle”. For today’s readers, Der Bingle was a nickname bestowed upon Bing Crosby…by the Germans during World War II. Musically there it was: Spike Jones City Slickers vs. “the groaner”. Unsurprisingly, Crosby would prevail.

Living those early years in Tappahannock, VA – by the river, my grandparent’s home was high above Prince Street, directly across from the Riverside Hotel. Holiday festivities abounded at the Riverside; the hotel was frantic with planned Christmas parties, dinner gatherings – all accompanied of course with contemporary Christmas music. That’s where our introduction to Irving Berlin’s (Israel Baline) unrivaled hit, White Christmas, occurred.

White Christmas would be the runaway smash-hit for the World War II holidays; years later, reputed to be the best-selling record of all time. The popular song resonated with American families – now separated by war, or distant work, and inundated with war-fear and insecurity. At the time, Irving Berlin shared with an interviewer, “Songs make history and history makes songs.”

Truthfully, Americans generally did not long for Christmas snowfalls – on the river we called them snow storms – even after Berlin planted the idea. The lyrics were particularly influential on northeasterners, now uprooted to the non-seasonal, snowless west coast. Slate’s Jody Rosen, who wrote: White Christmas – The Story of an American Song; and Berlin biographer, Philip Furia, brought huge insight to what was, for us, a seemlessly sentimental – verging on melancholy – celebration of Christmases – with vast separations.

The lyrics themselves are unorthodox. Furia points out how different the structure of the song was: “I’m” with a whole note – then racing over the other syllables before the next whole note, “w-h-i-t-e”, Christmas. Simultaneously, Rob Kapilow, lecturer, notes that the minor chords for ‘listen’ and ‘glisten’ border on simple heartbreak…and sadness. I remember thinking that as we sang it in the Douglas Freeman Glee Club so long ago.

All this is richly explained in Roy Harris, Jr’s WSJ piece, White Christmas and the Reasons it Endures, many years ago. His inquiry suggests where Berlin got his inspiration – as a Jewish youth in Brooklyn, like many others, the composer’s holiday experience was that of an outsider. Others surmise that the loss of an infant son, Irving, Jr., on Christmas Eve, 1928, brought an edge to his sadness annually. We lost an infant son in 1966 – it is always with us.

Philip Furia examined the potential influence of Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” since both the poem and Berlin lyrics evoke a beautiful, melancholy scene. Clearly the expanded radio business was altered by war….transcription was now developed. The invention of the “disc jockey” allowed the 78 record to be played endless, bringing it to new audiences, month after month. Juke boxes by the thousands replayed it on and on – so it was.

Christmas at my grandparent Latane’s passed nicely. Big fireplace fires brought security and warmth from cold winds off the Rappahannock River. The tree was decorated with dancing lights – if one blew, all lights failed. It was testimony of one’s limitations when figuring out which festive bulb bummed out. Chasing dead Christmas lights sometimes consumed hours, becoming part of holiday ritual. That year we added White Christmas to our holiday inventory.

In Tappahannock, in 1943, I can still here the melodies stream from the hotel, across Prince Street, up the bank to that Grandparent home of long ago – intuitively knowing it was then special – and probably forever.

At minimum, for me, there are two types of funeral attendee: the deeply bereaved…families, contemporary genuine friendships tracing to childhood; or those, simply paying respect, to a loss relationship – a more obligational form.

Both attendee groups enjoy full legitimacy; yet, the feelings, held within the former, simply outweigh those of the latter, who find themselves on the periphery of attachment – a totally normal circumstance. One might conclude the latter generates life’s warmth of the former – by comparison.

Bereavement can be inexplicable and immeasurable, but deeply presiding.

The losses experienced by me in the last four weeks are devastating – mainly from the general field of education: a leader of the University of Richmond’s Education Department; a Douglas Freeman High School coach, administrator, and phenomenal role model –for a half century; a widely respected school superintendent – then Commonwealth educational official; a committed, and sacrificial school principal, who met head-on challenges of a county-urban Henrico High School; a superb English teacher – later guidance counselor, who brought humor to the highest quality of teaching (get your feet off the Chippendale furniture!); finally, a contemporary of mine in our high school life of the mid-1950’s, who among other roles, was a football team co-captain.

I write of one Donald H. Davies, a mid-fifties player in local football at Douglas Freeman High School, under the superb, but self-understated, William E. (Bill) Long – Head Coach at that very new place.

Davies was younger (a year behind me), sometimes over exuberant, occasionally inarticulate, but capable of genuine field leadership… and deep friendship. Together, with four of his close friends, they became tagged over the years as the”4 Hammers and Nail”…now morphed into “3 Hammers and a Nail.” The five had appeared in a Stunt Talent Night together, singing Heart of My Heart.

Those five horsemen included Bob Grymes, the Nail (now tagged as the Reverend Doctor Grymes), Lance Hopkins, Don Falls, Tommy Smith, and of course the Captain colleague, Don Davies.

Today, here we were…now elderly, carefully dispensing limited energies. Strongly suspicious of potential dementia or potential stroke – certainly my family history reminds. I’m standing there at the Davies funeral, self-annoyed, with a nagging reality: life is almost complete – more than a third of one’s contempories have “left the building.” Some who remain display sad, frightening increase of profound mental or physical change. Thank God, more often than not, I entertain the idea that life will continue “normally”….hopefully, more or less intact – a true blessing.

There I stood, chilly, under a helpful sun, at 11 a.m. in Forest Lawn Cemetery, on the periphery of all this. Observing the miracle of a retired professional educator, spiritually presiding over the deep loss of his friend, with the other three Hammers standing close by; these attendees were deeply bereaved – their loss deep, but palatable. He’d been so ill. Don Davies continued to teach.

As an outsider I paid my respects, finding me envious of the true closeness these five men enjoyed – a relationship just not duplicable, nor replaceable. In this world these relationship seemed exceptional to me….and I suspect they really are. In their body language with Bob Grymes’ beautifully spoken words, they brought forth the lyrical work of an 1865 Walt Whitman:

O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring….

Oh Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flung – for you the bugle trills.

And so we exit the grave site having reached a periphery of human experience, human love, sacrifice, and companionship. We leave unto ourselves – with new growth and richness. These four men with their captain showed us the way…into quite a different Christmas spirit.

Normally, when Henrico teachers, mostly retired by now, consider Dr. William C. Bosher, they simply understand he lacked the bureaucratic odor. He simply avoided the malady…he did not speak nor share inanities of bureaucratic vocabulary. No fabrications in his leadership.

William (Bill) Cleveland Bosher, Jr. was in recent years Distinguished Professor Public Policy and Education at Virginia Commonwealth University. He came through the ranks, starting in Henrico County, VA where he taught and later became superintendent. Making my career change to the classroom in 1984, I was simply fortunate to work under him….he would later become dean of the VCU School of Education.

Most importantly, he headed off silly far-fetched nationally educational trends, one after another, keeping the system straight and narrow. He would use imagery of English literature, mesmerizing both student and teacher. He could be forcefully blunt: “OBE (Outcome Based Education) in Virginia is dead.” We were so grateful.

As a middle aged new-comer from the real corporate world, I early understood Dr. Bosher valued and understood his richest asset: the teacher – how fortunate for us.

Raymond B. Wallace, Jr. (December 1 2014)

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